Prison in a pandemic

Mission partner Anna Sims paints a picture of prison ministry amid the restrictions of lockdown.

She felt like a rain-soaked scarecrow. The unidentified clear liquid seeped into her clothing as a prison guard in a khaki-coloured waterproof onesie continued to generously douse her and the plastic bags of provisions that were getting heavier by the second in her outstretched arms. Her feet were still wet from the murky foot bath she’d been made to stand in moments before and she was thankful that she’d worn an old pair of flip-flops, although she was somewhat regretting her choice of clothes as her skin and scalp started to itch from the drops of bleach? disinfectant? detergent?

She was ushered along to the next guard, sitting behind a makeshift desk and getting frustrated at the slowness as she spelled out the inmates’ unfamiliar names, her Spanish hampered by a British accent, the masks making it more difficult to understand and be understood. Finally, giving up and entering the four bags, destined for different inmates, under one name, the guard impatiently waved her on.

Arriving at the conveyor belt she placed the yellow bags on the end, by now dripping wet. The inky blue of the letters was running down the bright yellow bags in small rivulets, distorting the name further with each escaping tear. She watched the bags get swallowed up by the X-ray machine. A few items dislodged themselves as the heavy rubber curtain swiped packets of biscuits and teabags from their precarious positions. The guards impatiently tipped the remaining contents into a pile at the furthest end of the inspection area, checking for contraband. The items were sprayed again and then shoved back indiscriminately into the four bags.

She silently prayed that the items, carefully chosen and packed for each woman with handwritten notes, would arrive into the hands of the women for whom they were intended and would be a blessing. She was used to the lack of control, always being at the mercy of the moods of the prison staff, but she knew it was worse for the inmates.

It was quicker getting out than in. She stepped out onto the street, the clanging of the heavy metal door being shut, bolted and padlocked as familiar to her as the sound of her own front door being closed.